


In the Eyes of You

by AjaxCats



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Hannibal Lecter, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Timelines, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mpreg, Mpreg is not explicit, Omega Will Graham, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28446825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AjaxCats/pseuds/AjaxCats
Summary: “How is the pup?” Hannibal’s voice is calm and collected. There’s no anger or disappointment evident on his face. It’s not a surprise really, that Hannibal knows already. He has always had a keen sense of smell, even for an Alpha.---Three years after the event of Uffizi Gallery, Hannibal and Will meet again.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 162





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The 3 year time skip now takes place directly after the reunion Uffizi Gallery. Most major plot points will still occur.

Will draws his jacket tighter across his body against the biting chill of the wind as he climbs up the smooth stone steps of the university. Jack is already holding the door open for him at the top. Inside is a welcome respite from the outdoors, warm and dry. Will rings his hands together as they stride down the long hall, letting his body come back up to temperature. The university’s grandiose façade is intimidating; massive marble columns stretch several floors high, capped with intricately decorated domes. Large windows let the dim light from outside spill in from every direction. The walk to the Dean’s office takes no longer than five minutes; only once do they have to stop and ask a student for directions. Soon enough they’re in front of the Dean’s office. Jack raises his curled hand up to the door, giving Will a poignant stare as he does so. His knocks disturb the quiet of the hall as he steps back from the door. Will averts his eyes towards a set of potted plants. The door opens, and Jack greets the Dean.

No sooner does the conversation start than Will stops listening to it. He doesn’t need to hear Jack’s whole spiel again. He’s here. Will doesn’t need to ask questions to have his suspicion confirmed, he just knows.

Instead, he makes his way to the window, looking between the blinds at the students below. One girl is making her way briskly through the campus, her hood pulled tight over her head and her hands tucked firmly in her armpits; her face is red and each breath visible. Two friends stand close, sharing body heat as they laugh together. Another carries a coffee in his gloved hand as he walks with his shoulders hunched, no doubt absorbed in his phone. Most of the students move along a set path, letting muscle memory guide them as they move without thought toward their next destination. When it sounds like the conversation is coming to a close Will draws his eyes away from the window, letting his body follow the motion, turning to leave the room with Jack.

It only takes a minute before Jack loops around Will to cut him off. He's been waiting for this since they arrived here. Jack’s doubt in him has been slowly building; now he needs this confirmation, for Will to make him feel secure again when he has everything to feel insecure about. 

“Will,” Jack's eyes follow Will’s, forcing him to meet Jack’s stare. “Are you sure you can do this?”

“Can I do what? Capture Hannibal, or put myself and my child in danger to do so?”

“I just need to know that after everything that you and Hannibal have...” Jack sucks in a breath, his body tense, searching for the right word, “...been through, you can still follow through.”

“I can. You’re forgetting everything that Hannibal has put me through too. I want him locked up just as much as you do.” The statement is true, Will knows it to be. But that truth is surrounded by a thick fog deep within himself, made of a desire and need that he cannot help.

“Okay,” Jack says, though he still sounds unsure. His eyes still linger on Will as he turns, moving towards the exit. 

Once outside they part ways, bidding each other farewell. Will watches Jack’s receding figure from under the security of the building until he can’t make him out anymore. The weather has only worsened. Now the clouds have darkened, and the wind has picked up. Will keeps a quick pace as he heads towards a café he had seen when he and Jack had arrived on campus. 

When he steps into the café he’s hit with the scent of rich coffee and vanilla. Will approaches the counter, ordering a small coffee. He looks around as he waits. A shelf featuring several brightly colored postcards and brochures catches his eye. A phone rings in the background. Walking over, he picks up a map of the city, looking for any place that he may have a chance of spotting him at. Will scans the brochure quickly, running his fingers over the smooth pages as he looks. 

“Will!” The barista calls out his name, holding his coffee in hand. Before he can grab his cup from the barista, she says, “Someone called. Said they wanted you to meet them at the National Gallery.” 

“Did they say who they were?”

“Nope.” The barista shifts on her feet and looks away. “Just said to tell a ‘Will Graham’ to meet him at the Gallery. It was a guy, a foreigner by the sounds of it; hope that helps.”

“Can you show me where the gallery is?” Will pulls out his map, laying it out flat on the counter. She does and Will thanks her, exiting the café and following the map to the gallery.

Muffled footsteps and hushed voices are the only things that Will hears as he enters the gallery. Soft, warm light reflects off dark oak floors, and the faintest scent of him is barely discernible against the mingling scents of all the other patrons. Will takes to searching the gallery for the right place, avoiding the clusters of people surrounding the more famous works; instead focusing on the smaller and lesser known pieces. He lingers at each one, reading its accompanying placard. 

In the back of the gallery there is an alcove with lone painting. Will steps around to read the placard, careful to mind the stone bench. 

Achilles Lamenting the Death of Patroclus. Achilles refuses the comfort of his Greek comrades as he grieves over the dead body of his devoted attendant and friend, Patroclus, who was killed by the Trojans. The enormous size of Hamilton's painting conveys a sense of his ambition to depict episodes from Homer's 'Iliad' in an overpowering, epic mode. His heroic compositions were designed to convey the dramatic and emotional range of the epic poem, based on Alexander Pope's translation.

Will slips off his coat, settling into the bench behind him and folds his fingers together. It’s not long before he can pick up on a nearing familiar scent as well as a distinct pattern of footsteps. 

“Hello, Will.”

Will turns his head toward the voice he’s grown so familiar with. Warmth spreads through his chest as a small smile creeps over his face. Hannibal still looks the same as he had three years ago; he still stands tall, with his hair parted neatly to keep his bangs out of his eyes. His eyes. They still look at Will with the same carnal desire as they had that night. Hannibal sloughs off his coat and sits down, leaning back into the bench and crossing his legs. 

“Hello, Hannibal.”

“Do you remember what I said to you, all those years ago?”

Will looks down at his intertwined hands, closing his eyes, recalling the moment; so distant yet familiar. He lets out a small, huffed laugh and meets Hannibal’s gaze again. “That if you saw me everyday, forever, you would remember that moment.”

Hannibal’s voice is soft as he speaks again, “Yes. And I’ll remember this moment in much the same way.” 

Their conversation pauses, and they both take the time to breathe in each other’s scent. Hannibal’s is rich and earthy, with a hint of spice; it’s comforting, in a way. Will can feel his body relax and his racing mind calm. Beside him Hannibal does the same, looking him over, refamiliarizing himself with all the minute changes that have occurred in the past three years since they’ve seen each other. 

Something inside Will snaps when their eyes meet again. The dam that had been holding back a deep sea of desire that had been there since the night after Uffizi Gallery. The night Hannibal had brought him back to his apartment. Will sighs, deep and content. For the first time in years he finally feels at home.

“How is the pup?” Hannibal’s voice is calm and collected. There’s no anger or disappointment evident on his face. It’s not a surprise really, that Hannibal knows already. He has always had a keen sense of smell, even for an Alpha. 

“He’s doing good. Just turned two a couple of months ago.” Will observes Hannibal’s face intently, watching for the subtleties in his expression that give away his thoughts. Understanding Hannibal has always been easy, something that came natural to him and took no effort. Yet now Hannibal is making it difficult, purposely hiding his emotions from him, likely trying to gauge Will’s reaction for himself.

“He’s mine, I presume.” And like that Hannibal’s façade cracks, for only just a moment, and Will already has everything he needs. It’s Hannibal’s eyes that betray his cautionary excitement. Will gives him a soft, answering smile; Hannibal’s interest in their pup isn’t unwelcome, he’s their pup’s father just as much as Will is. He deserves to know. 

Hannibal seems to relax, letting his front fall. He smiles as he turns his head towards the painting, closing his eyes. There’s a flutter in his stomach as he watches Hannibal. He looks almost wistful in thought. 

Will lifts slightly off the bench and pulls out his wallet. Behind his cards and cash and hiding underneath his rarely used library card is the only photo he carries of his son. Will looks at the photo fondly as he hands it over. Hannibal takes the picture in his hands gingerly, holding it between his thumb and index fingers, silently staring at it. Will shifts closer to Hannibal, leaning into him to get a better look at the photograph for himself. 

“His name is Leonas,” Will whispers; though Hannibal seems too thoroughly enraptured with the photo to have heard.

“He’s beautiful. A perfect combination of you and I,” He murmurs, and Will can only hum his own agreement. “He has your eyes and my hair. My face yet he has your nose.” There is a surge of rippling heat that grips his heart at Hannibal’s words.

“Our little lion.”

Hannibal pulls away, and meets Will’s eyes, “Couples in troubled relationships often choose to have a child as a means to bring them closer together. Yet, more often than not, the added stress of that child pushes their relationship beyond its breaking point, and the innocent suffers. Tell me, Will, why are you here? Using our pup as a means to capture me?” 

Will sighs, and looks away, “Something like that. I wanted you to know, at the very least. You deserve that.”

Hannibal’s eyes follow him for a second longer before he rises to his feet. He doesn’t give the photo back to Will. “Shall we?”

“Lead the way.”

As they pass through the gallery towards the exit, he spots a painting he hadn’t seen before; a twelve-point stag, holding its antlers high against the sunlight, with mountains framing it in the background. It’s eyes seem to follow him.

They’re hit by the wind as soon as Hannibal opens the door. It’s sprinkling now, starting sometime after he entered the Gallery. The street is littered with small puddles that splash muddy droplets onto his shoes. Will follows Hannibal wordlessly, looking at the rooftops and windows. This time he doesn’t pull a knife out, not that he even has one or the intention of using it. There’s an officer just up ahead, scanning the streets. Before they can cross in front of the officer, Hannibal takes his arm in a firm grip, leading him into an alleyway. He looks up at Hannibal at the sudden change in direction, silently asking.

“I believe we are being followed.” Hannibal’s shoulders are tense as he speaks. Will looks back at the officer, now talking on his radio; his face changed from impassive to concerned.

“The bounty is still out for your head. Verger probably bought them out.” 

“Then we don’t have much time.” 

Hannibal shepherds him deftly through the city, keeping their pace brisk. Eventually they reach what looks like an apartment building, several stories high with an ornately decorated exterior. Hannibal pushes the frosted glass door open, stepping inside and holding it open for him. The receptionist, a middle aged blond woman, a Beta judging by her scent, perks up at the sight of them. Or rather at the sight of Hannibal. She sends Hannibal a wide smile, pushing her arms into her chest, trying to emphasize what little bust she had. 

“Hi, Hannibal.” The receptionist's eyes run up and down Hannibal. Will doesn’t miss the way she pauses halfway up. Her nostrils flare as she takes in their scents. Her smile falters and the furrow of her brow deepens. “Who is your,” The receptionist looks between them, “friend?” Her words are slightly clipped as she speaks. She still maintains an air of friendliness, despite her emotion; perhaps to anybody else she would have come off as pleasant. It’s a shame that neither of them are anybody else.

Hannibal looks back at Will, something unrecognizable gleams in his eyes. “He is just that, Mrs. Willard, my friend. If you will excuse us.” 

Mrs. Willard’s shoulders sag and her lips purse at Hannibal's words. “Of course. You both have a good night.” They turn away, heading towards the elevator. Will can almost feel the daggers that Mrs. Willard is undoubtedly sending his way. As the doors start to close, Will gives Mrs. Willard a smile. 

The floor lurches as the elevator moves towards the third floor. Neither Will nor Hannibal speak as they move, a comfortable silence settling between them. After the third chime sounds they step off, walking through the hall towards Hannibal's apartment. They stop at number 39, Hannibal pulls out his key and slots it into the lock, unlocking and opening the door in one smooth motion; Will closes the door behind them. Both of them take the time to remove their coats and shoes, putting each in its proper place. It’s quite inside; the only noise to be heard was traffic outside. The only source of light is a sliver of sun that peaks through the gap of the curtains. Hannibal moves further into the apartment, turning the corner into what is presumably the living room. Before Will can turn the corner himself he hits Hannibal’s back. In front of them is the police. Ten officers in total, each with their gun raised, their fingers on the trigger. 

“You are being quite rude, you know; entering my home without permission.”

“Put your hands behind your head and kneel on the ground,” An officer orders, Captain Brian Ungrad, his name tag reads. 

Hannibal looks over his shoulder at Will before complying, slowly lowering himself to the ground. Three officers approach them, two go to Hannibal, zip tying his wrists together. The third officer pushes Will back with a hand on his chest. 

“We’ll get double for the Omega; tie him up too.” 

Suddenly, he’s being forced down to the ground as two more officers advance towards him. He kicks the legs out from under the first officer and throws a punch at the second. The third hits him hard in the stomach. Will curls his left arm over his sore torso. Out of the corner of his eyes he can see Hannibal staring at him, maneuvering his hands in the zip tie. Before Will can make his next move he’s already on the ground, his vision going dark. A searing pain rips through the entirety of his head. His eyelids become heavy, offering relief from the pain. Will accepts, allowing himself to wade into the quiet of the stream.


	2. Chapter 2

Dull pain throbs at the back of Hannibal’s head as he wakes. Quiet darkness surrounds him, only disturbed by the drone of tires on asphalt and the rattle of chains. The whistle of breath beside him catches his attention. Hannibal scents the air. Cold, dry air burns his nostrils as it enters. The scent is all too familiar; warm and comforting. Yet now it is marred, tainted by the metallic tang blood and the decay of flesh. 

The truck slows and turns; the susurration of the road is replaced by the sound of tires crunching over gravel. When they stop inertia keeps him moving, tugging on his already sore ankles. A resounding groan echoes beside him.

The vehicle shudders as metal hits metal from outside, and suddenly, bright, burning white light overcomes his vision, stranding him back in the dark. Hannibal’s vision slowly changes from behind his eyelids, the black sea becomes red and he dares to peek on the outside world. A messy figure moves towards him, low to the ground; a faint whirring accompanies his approach. 

Both the figure and the whirring stop just at the edge of the truck. Slowly the spots and blurriness fade, offering a grotesque and macabre face, contorted and swollen with grafted tissue. His eyes gleam with unadulterated joy. 

“Gentlemen, welcome to Muskrat Farms.” Mason looks between them, the edges of his mouth twitch upward.

“My, my Mr. Graham, you’ve certainly seen better days.” Mason’s voice drips with satisfaction as he looks Will over. Something writhes against the inside of Hannibal’s chest as he watches. Blood slowly crawls up his bruised and swollen forehead and into his hair, dripping onto the floor below. His eyes focus on nothing, jumping about sluggishly. His head turns towards Hannibal, finding his gaze for only a moment before losing him once more. Hannibal brings Mason’s attention back to himself.

“Your people might have assassinated me earlier, Mason.”

“Where's the fun in that?” 

“I see the first coarse bristles of revenge have brushed the ruin of your cheek and begun to excite you.”

“I am very excited.” His smile grows wider as he slips a hand into his pocket; a knife, glinting in the light. From behind Mason a man steps out and into the truck. The man’s scent is an affront to the senses; sour and rancid. It churns his stomach with each breath he takes. Strong hands grip Hannibal’s thighs and turn him, presenting his back to Mason. “I still carry my father’s knife,” Mason says, “Every ready to slip into a pig’s back to check the depth of fat.” 

Hannibal closes his eyes and takes a breath. He feels nothing at first, just the pressure of Mason’s hand as he reaches the handle. When the pressure recedes heat sets in. Fire spreads over his back and radiates up his leg. He forces himself to relax, pushing the pain to the back of his mind. Hannibal lets out a sigh as he opens his eyes, turned back around to face Mason once more. Mason’s thumb is running up the blade, smearing blood over his finger. He seems disappointed if anything. “A little on the lean side. Let’s fatten you up, shall we?”

The man climbs out of the truck then, grabbing Mason’s chair and pushing him out of view. Two workers take his place, reaching up to undo their bindings. The subsequent drop to the ground knocks the breath from Hannibal’s lungs. His stab wound burns as he’s dragged along the metal floor. Hands pull hard on his arms, forcing him to stand on numb legs. Straps are wound around him as he's tied into a handcart.

The pungent odor of rotting hay and pigs hits Hannibal when they enter the barn. Pens form a barricade in the dimly lit room, each with its own pigs trapped inside. Mason and the man are already inside, waiting for their arrival. 

“It is more trouble physically to move a semi-wild pig against its will than to kidnap a man.”

“Pigs are harder to get hold of, and the big ones are stronger than a man.” The man turns to face them, greeting each of them with a coy smile. 

“There are the tusks to consider, if you want to maintain the integrity of your abdomen. Something worth maintaining, Mr. Graham? Tusked beats instinctively disembowel.” As always Mason is blinded by his prejudice. An Alpha that sees those deemed lesser as nothing more than weak, meant for the taking. Will is anything but prey. 

“At swine fairs, I’ve seen exotic pigs from all over the world. For my new purpose, you are the best of all that I’ve seen. We will have some good, funny times, Dr. Lecter.” Mason leaves, the faint hum of his chair grows quiet as he disappears around the corner. Men take them in separate directions. 

The journey is short; stopping for a dressing change before moving again. They arrive in a large dining hall, decorated much to his own tastes.

“I snatched Will Graham right out of your mouth. You must be famished.” 

“There is an inescapable parallel between you and Jezebel, Mason. Keen Bible student that you are, you’ll recall dogs ate Jezebel’s face, along with the rest of her.”

“If Jezebel was right with the Risen Jesus, if she praised His name, the Riz would have provided her a new face. As he has provided mine.” Mason looks over to Will. “The transplant surgery is extremely skillful, which is why Cordell here will be performing the face-off.”

“Hello,” Cordell says.

“You boys remind me of that German cannibal who advertised for a friend, then ate the friend’s penis with him before he died. Tragedy being, the penis was overcooked. Go to all that trouble to eat a friend, and you overcook his penis. They ate it anyway. They had to, they committed. But they didn’t enjoy it. I’m committed to enjoying every bite of you.” 

“You’re going to eat him... with my face?”

“Well, not so soon.” Mason’s mouth quirks as he speaks. “There was a book I read in middle school, all about lions. It spoke of how when rival males took over a pride, they would slaughter all of the king's cubs, to ensure that the old bloodline would die out. Only after the lioness has given birth to his offspring would he be secure in his position ruling the pride.” 

A growl resonates through Hannibal's chest at Mason’s words. Yet the sound doesn’t start in his throat. With his teeth bared Will challenges Mason, a threat gleaming in his eyes as his fingers dig into the padding of his handcart. 

Mason pauses for a moment, a look of surprise impressed upon his tarnished face. “You’re quite the peculiar Omega, aren’t you Mr. Graham? Cordell, would you please fetch something to calm him down before he hurts himself?” Cordell nods, leaving the room. 

“Why do this, Mason?”

“Margot managed to find herself someone to breed with. With a male heir she stands to inherit Verger Estate and all its fortunes. I don’t intend to let that happen.” 

“It’s dangerous to get exactly what you want. What will you do after you’ve eaten me and procured an heir?”

“You could wreck some foster homes,” Will’s voice rumbles as he glares at Mason, “Torment some children.”

“Drink martinis made with tears,” Mason adds.

“But where, Mason, would the hard-core fun come from?”

“It’s foolish to dilute this ecstatic time with fears about the future, Dr. Lecter.”

Cordell slips back into the room then, a syringe carried in his hand. Will’s eyes fixate on the plate in front of him; the growl in his throat growing louder with every step closer. Leaning down, Cordell corners Will in the handcart. Hannibal can smell the savory anger rippling off him as the needle threatens to breach his skin.

Will strikes. Teeth tear at skin. Blood paints Will’s maw as he rips his head back. Heat simmers low in Hannibal’s stomach at the sight.

Spitting, Will plates Cordell’s flesh with all the elegance deserving of the man it had once been attached to. Will scans over the room, just as a lynx stalks the hare. The fire in Will’s eyes quiets when they reach Hannibal. He offers Will an amused smile for his efforts. 

“No pajama party for you, Mr. Graham. Fortunately, you don’t need to be pretty to be a broodmare. You’ll be fed to the pigs as soon as you outstay your welcome.”

* * *

Hannibal doesn’t pull against the ropes that bind him. He lets no sound of pain escape him. The cool air of the barn is cast away by the heat of the branding iron searing his skin. He savors the scent of cooking meat rising in the air. 

The branding iron hisses as it’s submerged, burning away the water in a violent display of metamorphosis. 

Cordell turns to face him, a bandage stark against his cheek. It would leave an ugly scar, should it be allowed to heal. 

“Mason would’ve preferred to brand your face. He fought bravely and with his own funds against the Humane Slaughter Act, and managed to keep face-branding legal.” 

“It is very important to Mason that I have the pig’s experience.”

“The Vergers sponsor a number of breeding and genetic research programs, not all being for these beautiful creatures. Truly visionary.”

“He has a wealth of information and resources in his faceless skull.” 

“The longer you’re respectful, the longer you’ll keep your tongue.”

“And when I do lose my tongue?”

“I’ll boil it and slice it very thin, then marinate it in olive oil, garlic, parsley and vinegar.”

“Simple, clean, delicious.”

“Have they told you what is going to happen to you? In a few hours, I’ll come down here and remove all you’ve got below the elbows and knees. I’ll keep you going with IVs and tourniquets until the very last. Some things are best saved for last. Once you’re dead, I’ll prepare your loins and ribs, aged.” It’s almost touching, the amount of effort Mason is putting into this; making every attempt to replicate Hannibal’s own preparation methods.

“Meats are aged not only for tenderness, but mainly for flavor.”

“And flavors change.”

“Subtle, but dramatic.”

“Every day I will feed Mason some new part of you,” Cordell gives him a coy smile, “And don’t worry, Dr. Lecter, you will always be cooked to perfection.” A promise hangs in the air as Cordell leaves.

Only a half hour passes before the click of heels rouses Hannibal from his thoughts. Margot approaches his cage, bending down to greet him. Fear and sadness have stopped weighing down her countenance. Her blue eyes don’t cower under his like they had years ago, instead meeting him with her own ferocity. On her neck are two bond scars, one superseding the other.

“Thank you for coming, Margot. It’s been a long time since I treated you. How has being a mother and bonded treated you?”

“Are we in therapy now?”

“You tell me.”

“Mason has promised to take my future away from me. With the both of you here he can take his revenge on all of us in one fell swoop.” Margot’s scent dampens at the mention of her brother. “He’s going to take away our everything. Yours and mine.” Her concern for his happiness seems misplaced. There’s sincerity in her words yet her tone is sheared with apathy. 

“You know he must die. He will always deny you your happiness.”

“Are you saying you’d do it for me? I could never trust you.”

“Of course not. But you could trust me never to deny that I did it. It would actually be more therapeutic for you to kill him yourself, Margot. You’ll remember I recommended that in a session years ago.”

“You said to wait until I could get away with it.”

“What difference would one more murder charge make to me? I’m the only other suspect you’ve got.” The furrow of Margot’s brow deepens as she considers his offer. “You can do it when it suits you, and I’ll write a letter gloating about how I enjoyed killing him. Just like you said; he was going to take away everything from me.”

Margot moves to speak, but the beat of footsteps interrupts her. They both look up at the newly arrived guest. Alana carries herself with the strength of a battle-hardened soldier, wearing her cane and scars like badges of honor. The Alana Hannibal knew from years past would scorn herself today. Never would she present herself as anything other than meek and unassuming, so all the masses would find comfort in her warm eyes. This Alana has changed, transformed, embraced her nature and let herself be brave.

“I thought I could save Will from you, but right now you’re the only one who can save him.” Alana looks down on him, contempt braces her cold indifference. “Your son is safe at our home, being watched over as we speak. I’d tell you not to worry, but I’m not sure you care about anybody other than yourself.” 

They both wait on each other to speak next. Alana is the one to break the silence. “Promise me you’ll save him.” Hannibal doesn’t answer; the frustration gathering in the frown on Alana’s face brings some cruel levity to the situation. “Please.” 

With her plea Hannibal relinquishes, “I promise, Alana. And I always keep my promises. Just cut the rope on one arm, give the knife to me and leave. I can do the rest.”

“Are you going to kill Mason?”

“Margot is. Take some of my hair, put it in Mason’s hand after he’s dead.”

Alana bends down, facing Hannibal as an equal, her breath close enough to tickle his cheek. “Could I have ever understood you?”

“No.”

With the last remaining thread of their relationship severed, Alana digs her hand into Hannibal’s hair and rips, cutting the rope that binds his arm in the same moment. Alana doesn’t look at him again as she leaves; Margot follows her with one final, asking glance back at him. 

Hannibal rises from the cage and throws the collar to the ground. A fire ignites in his chest and a fog clouds his mind as he stalks the halls of the Muskrat Farms. One thought guides him in the haze of his mind: _Save Will._

The fog parts as a man falls to the floor, choking and gurgling, clutching at the stab wound in his throat as he drowns in his own blood. He soon joins five others in death, slaughtered without dignity like the pigs they raise. 

Hannibal closes his eyes, his lips part and he draws breath, taking apart the scents harbored in the air as they coat his tongue and throat. Cloaked underneath the warmth of blood and the chill of death is Will. His feet move in accordance to his nose, guiding him to the door where the familiar scent is the strongest. 

An overwhelming wave of nausea hits Hannibal square in the chest as he opens the door. The wretched scent wreathes itself around his heart and constricts. Its acidity burns his nostrils and lungs with each breath. It’s a smell Hannibal has only had the displeasure of experiencing a few times in his life: distressed Omega. Before, it triggered him to become subdued and wary, now it acts as an accelerant, fanning the flames of the raging fire inside him. 

Hannibal stalks forward, taking furtive steps as he creeps through the room. Surgical sheets line the walls, with IV racks and metal trays paired with each bed. A body lies in one bed, dressed in red scrubs; Mason, with his face still intact. 

At the end of the room a figure looms, cast a ghostly white under the fluorescent light of the overhead lamp. Another body lies on the table, tied down with fraying leather straps. Hannibal takes a silent step forward. Brown curls create a broken crown. Another step. Movement catches his attention. Blue eyes watch him. 

Will’s face is frozen in all but his eyes, watching him with rapt attention. A pleading tear forms and quickly falls, leaving a shimmering streak down his cheek. 

With a snarl on his lips Hannibal drives his knife in between Cordell’s shoulder blades. The blade pushes through muscle and vertebrae and splits his spinal cord. Cordell falls nearly as fast as Hannibal can pull the knife out, dropping onto the floor with an unceremonious thud. Hannibal steps over him and joins with Will, placing a bloodied hand on his cheek and thumbing away the tear track. “It’s alright Will, you don’t have to fight anymore. Let yourself wade into the quiet of the steam.” Will drifts away, and Hannibal grabs a scalpel.

Hannibal sits over Cordell, leaning forward to look him in the eyes before he starts. “Try to stay conscious as long as possible, Cordell. You won’t want to miss out on the show.” 

A bead of blood forms as Hannibal presses the tip of the scalpel against Cordell’s cheek. It falls, spattering on the floor in a brilliant dance of crimson, each broken drop a brushstroke on the tile. The blade glides through flesh with ease, splitting sinew from bone. The light begins to fade in wide eyes. Hannibal peels the skin away, just as he would with a piece of fruit. The meat will be wasted though; left in the ground to be devoured by the creatures of the soil. He christens Mason with a new face. 

Hannibal takes a deep breath to calm himself down. Both threats to Will are now gone, left dying and unconscious. Will looks serene in sleep. The tension he holds in his shoulders has relaxed, and the lines on his face have all but gone. Strands of hair at Will’s temple have gone gray, serving as a reminder of everything they share together. Hannibal lifts Will, holding him up under his knees and shoulders and cradling him against his chest. They leave Muskrat Farms, walking out into the falling snow. 

* * *

Hannibal’s legs shake with the effort to climb the steps of Will’s home. He had lost feeling in them hours ago, only allowed to carry on by the adrenaline of the hunt. Awkwardly, he finds the knob to open the front door, mindful to not hit Will’s head against the frame. Balancing on one leg, he kicks the door shut.

Gently, he lowers Will onto his bed. The white flecks of snow that adorn his body begin to fade, soaking into his clothing. Hannibal moves quickly, taking off Will’s shoes and socks with deftness learned from his years spent working in the ER. He moves up, unbuckling his belt and undoing the buttons of Will’s jeans. Taking the zipper in between his thumb and forefinger he pulls down, mindful not to graze over anything else. 

As his hands reach to pull down Will’s pants he pauses, looking up towards Will’s face. Will does not look back at him. A weight lifts from Hannibal’s chest at the sight. He would not have to look into Will’s eyes and see resignation to this humiliation within them. 

He continues, tugging his shirt off of his body. Two lines mar him. The first, a scar, stands out like fire against pale skin. The last time Hannibal had seen it was eight months after he had given it. It had been an angry red, swollen and painful when his fingers brushed over it. With skillful precision Hannibal had cut into Will’s skin, with the intent to create a wound equal to his own. Now he will have a new scar alongside the old; another testament to his strength.

Finished, he takes the sole blanket in sight and places it over Will. Hannibal turns away, and only then does he realize just how empty the room is. There are no dogs swarming at his feet, begging for attention, nor are there any stray parts and tools strewn about the floor waiting to be tripped on. Only the shadows of tree limbs move. 

The space heater still remains, tucked away in the corner by the fireplace. Hannibal brings it over to the bed and turns it on, letting the heat warm their bodies. He takes a chair and sets it down beside Will, content to fight his exhaustion and watch over him through the night. 

Before he can sit, a voice catches him off guard; just barely a whisper above the quiet. “‘annib’l?” 

“Shh, Will. Don’t speak.” Will’s eyes struggle to stay open as Hannibal leans down to meet them, brushing a stray curl out of his face. “The paralytic still hasn’t worn off. You’ll only strain yourself trying.” Cold fingers brush over the skin of his hand, taking his in theirs. 

“Stay,” Will’s voice cracks and slowly fades away, “Please.” 

He moves around the bed without sound, pulling back on the blanket and slipping underneath. Will’s body is warm as Hannibal settles in behind him. His hand wraps over Will’s chest and finds his heart, each beat like the tick of a clock. Hannibal presses his nose into the back of Will’s neck and breathes deep, finding solace in his scent. Only once Hannibal hears Will’s breathing deepen and feel his heart beat slow does he allow himself to succumb to the exhaustion. 

* * *

The tingle of pins and needles pulls Hannibal from sleep. He peels his dry eyes open to look at his surroundings. Brown hair lies just in the periphery of his sight. 

_Will._

Hannibal lets out a soft sigh, careful not to wake Will. Will rests along his side, with one hand stretched out across his stomach. His face is tucked into the hollow of Hannibal’s neck, with his breath ghosting over his skin. 

They had been like this once before, going on three years ago. After Uffizi Gallery and after the night they had spent together, basking in each other’s warmth and scent in Hannibal’s bed. It had been cathartic, to realize the attraction between them, and to fall asleep in each other’s arms for the first time. But when morning had come the space between Hannibal’s arms lay empty, and the only trace Will had left him was his lingering scent on the sheets.

For three years Hannibal had held onto the few hours they spent together in his memory palace, waiting for a second chance. And now here they are, lying in bed together once again, yet it feels like the world has shifted beneath Hannibal’s feet. Less than twenty-four hours ago he thought of no one but himself and Will. Now he has a child, a son. Someone vulnerable he has to care for and protect. He’d felt the same about Mischa, and he had still failed her. He wouldn’t make that same mistake again. 

At his side Will’s breath hitches and his body stiffens as wakes. He pulls away, leaning back on his elbow, “Hannibal?” Hannibal doesn’t answer. Instead, he lays his numb hand on Will’s neck, rubbing his thumb along the skin there. Pink lips part and suck in a quiet breath at his touch. He continues upward, playing with the silky wisps at Will’s nape. “Hannibal,” Will repeats, his voice softer than the first time he asked. Hannibal pushes his fingers up into brown curls, kneading them into Will’s scalp. Blue eyes flutter shut as his head rocks in tandem with every press into him. Slowly, Will comes back down with a sigh, resting against Hannibal’s body once again. 

“We need to talk,” Will mutters against his skin. 

“I know, and we will. But for now go back to sleep. I will be here when you wake.” In the silence their breaths come to find each other, moving in lockstep as they fall back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for the support last chapter. Much more to come next time!

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be changing as the story progresses  
> \---  
> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Leonas - A Lithuanian name meaning lion


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